The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

  ‘It don’t matter! I shan’t lose much! I can use it for someone else!’

  The distance to the cemetery was about three miles, so as soon as they got out of the busy streets of the town, Hunter called a halt, and got up on the hearse beside the driver, Crass sat on the other side, and two of the other bearers stood in the space behind the driver’s seat, the fourth getting up beside the driver of the coach; and then they proceeded at a rapid pace.

  As they drew near to the cemetery they slowed down, and finally stopped when about fifty yards from the gate. Then Hunter and the bearers resumed their former position, and they passed through the open gate and up to the door of the church, where they were received by the clerk – a man in a rusty black cassock, who stood by while they carried the coffin in and placed it on a kind of elevated table which revolved on a pivot. They brought it in foot first, and as soon as they had placed it upon the table, the clerk swung it round so as to bring the foot of the coffin towards the door ready to be carried out again.

  There was a special pew set apart for the undertakers, and in this Hunter and the bearers took their seats to await the arrival of the clergyman. Barrington and the three others sat on the opposite side. There was no altar or pulpit in this church, but a kind of reading desk stood on a slightly raised platform at the other end of the aisle.

  After a wait of about ten minutes, the clergyman entered and, at once proceeding to the desk, began to recite in a rapid and wholly unintelligible manner the usual office. If it had not been for the fact that each of his hearers had a copy of the words – for there was a little book in each pew – none of them would have been able to gather the sense of what the man was gabbling. Under any other circumstances, the spectacle of a human being mouthing in this absurd way would have compelled laughter, and so would the suggestion that this individual really believed that he was addressing the Supreme Being. His attitude and manner were contemptuously indifferent. While he recited, intoned, or gabbled, the words of the office, he was reading the certificate and some other paper the clerk had placed upon the desk, and when he had finished reading these, his gaze wandered abstractedly round the chapel, resting for a long time with an expression of curiosity upon Bill Bates and the Semi-drunk, who were doing their best to follow in their books the words he was repeating. He next turned his attention to his fingers, holding his hand away from him nearly at arm’s length and critically examining the nails.

  From time to time as this miserable mockery proceeded the clerk in the rusty black cassock mechanically droned out a sonorous ‘Ah-men’, and after the conclusion of the lesson the clergyman went out of the church, taking a short cut through the grave-stones and monuments, while the bearers again shouldered the coffin and followed the clerk to the grave. When they arrived within a few yards of their destination, they were rejoined by the clergyman, who was waiting for them at the corner of one of the paths. He put himself at the head of the procession with an open book in his hand, and as they walked slowly along, he resumed his reading or repetition of the words of the service.

  He had on an old black cassock and a much soiled and slightly torn surplice. The unseemly appearance of this dirty garment was heightened by the circumstance that he had not taken the trouble to adjust it properly. It hung all lop-sided, showing about six inches more of the black cassock underneath one side than the other. However, perhaps it is not right to criticize this person’s appearance so severely, because the poor fellow was paid only seven-and-six for each burial, and as this was only the fourth funeral he had officiated at that day, probably he could not afford to wear clean linen – at any rate, not for the funerals of the lower classes.

  He continued his unintelligible jargon while they were lowering the coffin into the grave, and those who happened to know the words of the office by heart were, with some difficulty, able to understand what he was saying:

  ‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our Dear Brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust –’

  The earth fell from the clerk’s hand and rattled on the lid of the coffin with a mournful sound, and when the clergyman had finished repeating the remainder of the service, he turned and walked away in the direction of the church. Hunter and the rest of the funeral party made their way back towards the gate of the cemetery where the hearse and the carriage were waiting.

  On their way they saw another funeral procession coming towards them. It was a very plain-looking closed hearse with only one horse. There was no undertaker in front and no bearers walked by the sides.

  It was a pauper’s funeral.

  Three men, evidently dressed in their Sunday clothes, followed behind the hearse. As they reached the church door, four old men who were dressed in ordinary everyday clothes, came forward and opening the hearse took out the coffin and carried it into the church, followed by the other three, who were evidently relatives of the deceased. The four old men were paupers – inmates of the workhouse, who were paid sixpence each for acting as bearers.

  They were just taking out the coffin from the hearse as Hunter’s party was passing, and most of the latter paused for a moment and watched them carry it into the church. The roughly made coffin was of white deal, not painted or covered in any way, and devoid of any fittings or ornament with the exception of a square piece of zinc on the lid. None of Rushton’s party was near enough to recognize any of the mourners or to read what was written on the zinc, but if they had been they would have seen, roughly painted in black letters

  J.L.

  Aged 67

  and some of them would have recognized the three mourners who were Jack Linden’s sons.

  As for the bearers, they were all retired working men who had come into their ‘titles’. One of them was old Latham, the venetian blind maker.

  48

  The Wise men of the East

  At the end of the following week there was a terrible slaughter at Rushton’s. Barrington and all the casual hands were sacked, including Newman, Easton and Harlow, and there was so little work that it looked as if everyone else would have to stand off also. The summer was practically over, so those who were stood off had but a poor chance of getting a start anywhere else, because most other firms were discharging hands as well.

  There was only one other shop in the town that was doing anything at all to speak of, and that was the firm of Dauber and Botchit. This firm had come very much to the front during the summer, and had captured several big jobs that Rushton & Co. had expected to get, besides taking away several of the latter’s old customers.

  This firm took work at almost half the price that Rushton’s could do it for, and they had a foreman whose little finger was thicker than Nimrod’s thigh. Some of the men who had worked for both firms during the summer, said that after working for Dauber and Botchit, working for Rushton seemed like having a holiday.

  ‘There’s one bloke there,’ said Newman, in conversation with Harlow and Easton. ‘There’s one bloke there wot puts up twenty-five rolls o’ paper in a day an’ trims and pastes for ’imself; and as for the painters, nearly everyone of ’em gets over as much work as us three put together, and if you’re working there you’ve got to do the same or get the sack.’

  However much truth or falsehood or exaggeration there may have been in the stories of the sweating and driving that prevailed at Dauber and Bochit’s, it was an indisputable fact that the other builders found it very difficult to compete with them, and between the lot of them what work there was to do was all finished or messed up in about a quarter of the time that it would have taken to do it properly.

  By the end of September there were great numbers of men out of employment, and the practical persons who controlled the town were already preparing to enact the usual farce of ‘Dealing’ with the distress that was certain to ensue. The Rev. Mr Bosher talked of reopening the Labour Yard; the secretary of the OBS appealed for
more money and cast-off clothing and boots – the funds of the Society had been depleted by the payment of his quarter’s salary. There were rumours that the Soup Kitchen would be reopened at an early date for the sale of ‘nourishment’, and charitable persons began to talk of Rummage Sales and soup tickets.

  Now and then, whenever a ‘job’ ‘came in’, a few of Rushton’s men were able to put in a few hours’ work, but Barrington never went back. His manner of life was the subject of much speculation on the part of his former workmates, who were not a little puzzled by the fact that he was much better dressed than they had ever known him to be before, and that he was never without money. He generally had a tanner or a bob to lend, and was always ready to stand a drink, to say nothing of what it must have cost him for the quantities of Socialist pamphlets and leaflets that he gave away broadcast. He lodged over at Windley, but he used to take his meals at a little coffee tavern down town, where he used often to invite one or two of his old mates to take dinner with him. It sometimes happened that one of them would invite him home of an evening, to drink a cup of tea, or to see some curiosity that the other thought would interest him, and on these occasions – if there were any children in the house to which they were going – Barrington usually made a point of going into a shop on their way, and buying a bag of cakes or fruit for them.

  All sorts of theories were put forward to account for his apparent affluence. Some said he was a toff in disguise; others that he had rich relations who were ashamed of him because he was a Socialist, and who allowed him so much a week so long as he kept away from them and did not use his real name. Some of the Liberals said that he was in the pay of the Tories, who were seeking by underhand methods to split up the Progressive Liberal Party. Just about that time several burglaries took place in the town, the thieves getting clear away with the plunder, and this circumstance led to a dark rumour that Barrington was the culprit, and that it was these ill-gotten gains that he was spending so freely.

  About the middle of October an event happened that drew the town into a state of wild excitement, and such comparatively unimportant subjects as unemployment and starvation were almost forgotten.

  Sir Graball D’Encloseland had been promoted to yet a higher post in the service of the country that he owned such a large part of; he was not only to have a higher and more honourable position, but also – as was nothing but right – a higher salary. His pay was to be increased to seven thousand five hundred a year or one hundred and fifty pounds per week, and in consequence of this promotion it was necessary for him to resign his seat and seek re-election…

  [The ragged-trousered Tory workmen as they loitered about the streets, their stomachs empty, said to each other that it was a great honour for Mugsborough that their Member should be promoted in this way. They boasted about it and assumed as much swagger in their gait as their broken boots permitted.

  They stuck election cards bearing Sir Graball’s photograph in their windows and tied bits of blue and yellow ribbon – Sir Graball’s colours – on their underfed children.

  The Liberals were furious. They said that an election had been sprung on them – they had been taken a mean advantage of – they had no candidate ready.]

  They had no complaint to make about the salary, all they complained of was the short notice. It wasn’t fair because while they – the leading Liberals – had been treating the electors with the contemptuous indifference that is customary, Sir Graball D’Encloseland had been most active amongst his constituents for months past, cunningly preparing for the contest. He had really been electioneering for the past six months! Last winter he had kicked off at quite a number of football matches besides doing all sorts of things for the local teams. He had joined the Buffalos and the Druids, been elected President of the Skull and Crossbones Boys’ Society, and, although he was not himself an abstainer, he was so friendly to Temperance that he had on several occasions, taken the chair at teetotal meetings, to say nothing of the teas to the poor school children and things of that sort. In short, he had been quite an active politician, [in the Tory sense of the word, for months past and the poor Liberals had not smelt a rat until the election was sprung upon them.

  A hurried meeting of the Liberal Three Hundred was held, and a deputation sent to London to find a candidate but as there was only a week before polling day they were unsuccessful in their mission. Another meeting was held, presided over by Mr Adam Sweater – Rushton and Didlum also being present.]

  Profound dejection was depicted on the countenances of those assembled slave-drivers as they listened to the delegates’ report. The sombre silence that followed was broken at length by Mr Rushton, who suddenly started up and said that he began to think they had made a mistake in going outside the constituency at all to look for a man. It was strange but true that a prophet never received honour in his own land. They had been wasting the precious time running about all over the country, begging and praying for a candidate, and overlooking the fact that they had in their midst a gentleman – a fellow townsman, who, he believed, would have a better chance of success than any stranger. Surely they would all agree – if they could only prevail upon him to stand – that Adam Sweater would be an ideal Liberal Candidate!

  While Mr Rushton was speaking the drooping spirits of the Three Hundred were reviving, and at the name of Sweater they all began to clap their hands and stamp their feet. Loud shouts of enthusiastic approval burst forth, and cries of ‘Good old Sweater’ resounded through the room.

  When Sweater rose to reply, the tumult died away as suddenly as it had commenced. He thanked them for the honour they were conferring upon him. There was no time to waste in words or idle compliments; rather than allow the Enemy to have a walk-over, he would accede to their request and contest the seat.

  A roar of applause burst from the throats of the delighted Three Hundred.

  Outside the hall in which the meeting was being held a large crowd of poverty-stricken Liberal working men, many of them wearing broken boots and other men’s cast-off clothing, was waiting to hear the report of the slave-drivers’ deputation, and as soon as Sweater had consented to be nominated, Didlum rushed and opened the window overlooking the street and shouted the good news down to the crowd, which joined in the cheering. In response to their demands for a speech, Sweater brought his obese carcase to the window and addressed a few words to them, reminding them of the shortness of the time at their disposal, and intreating them to work hard in order that the Grand old Flag might be carried to victory.

  At such times these people forgot all about unemployment and starvation, and became enthusiastic about ‘Grand old Flags’. Their devotion to this flag was so great that so long as they were able to carry it to victory, they did not mind being poverty stricken and hungry and ragged; all that mattered was to score off their hated ‘enemies’, their fellow countrymen the Tories, and carry the grand old flag to victory. The fact that they had carried the flag to victory so often in the past without obtaining any of the spoils, did not seem to damp their ardour in the least. Being philanthropists, they were content – after winning the victory – that their masters should always do the looting.

  At the conclusion of Sweater’s remarks the philanthropists gave three frantic cheers and then someone in the crowd shouted ‘What’s the colour?’ After a hasty consultation with Rushton, who being a ‘master’ decorator, was thought to be an authority on colours – green – grass green – was decided upon, and the information was shouted down to the crowd, who cheered again. Then a rush was made to Sweater’s Emporium and several yards of cheap green ribbon were bought, and divided up into little pieces, which they tied into their buttonholes, and thus appropriately decorated, formed themselves into military order, four deep, and marched through all the principal streets, up and down the Grand Parade, round and round the Fountain, and finally over the hill to Windley, singing to the tune of ‘Tramp, tramp, tramp, the Boys are marching’:

  ‘Vote, Vote, Vote for Adam Sweater!<
br />
  Hang old Closeland on a tree!

  Adam Sweater is our man,

  And we’ll have him if we can,

  Then we’ll always have the biggest loaf for tea.’

  The spectacle presented by these men – some of them with grey heads and beards – as they marked time or tramped along singing this childish twaddle, would have been amusing if it had not been disgusting.

  By way of variety they sang several other things, including:

  ‘We’ll hang ole Closeland

  On a sour apple tree,’

  and

  ‘Rally, Rally, men of Windley

  For Sweater’s sure to win.’

  As they passed the big church in Quality Street, the clock began to strike. It was one of those that strike four chimes at each quarter of the hour. It was now ten o’clock so there were sixteen musical chimes:

  Ding, dong! Ding Dong!

  Ding dong! Ding dong!

  Ding dong! Ding dong!

  Ding dong! Ding dong!…

  [They all chanted ‘A-dam Sweat-er’ in time with the striking clock. In the same way the Tories would chant:]

  ‘Grab – all Close – land!

  Grab – all Close – land!

  Grab – all Close – land!

  Grab – all Close – land!’

  The town was soon deluged with mendacious literature and smothered with huge posters:

  ‘Vote for Adam Sweater!

  The Working-man’s Friend!’

  ‘Vote for Sweater and Temperance Reform.’

  ‘Vote for Sweater – Free Trade and Cheap Food.’

  or

  ‘Vote for D’Encloseland: Tariff Reform and Plenty of Work!’

  This beautiful idea – ‘Plenty of Work’ – appealed strongly to the Tory workmen. They seemed to regard themselves and their children as a sort of machines or beasts of burden, created for the purpose of working for the benefit of other people. They did not think it right that they should Live, and enjoy the benefits of civilization. All they desired for themselves and their children was ‘Plenty of Work’.